Only If You Have To

The Taste of Diesel

Ricky is almost worn out. He's pulled his visor down to hide it but the droop in his arms and chest won't lie. To the west the sun is falling down a well of blazing red. Against the scorched countryside it's hard to see the horizon. Soon it will be night, Ricky will lift his visor, and I know I'll see eyes drooping low, his mouth sagging lower. And yet I haven't yet seen him touch so much as coffee so far. It has been such a long time but my hands still remember every detail of those long drives across the outback. Running hot for days with stereo blaring and hyped to the eyeballs on whatever was available. Never believe a salesman who claims that they'll keep you awake. All they do is refuse to let you sleep by making you unbearably tense. My hands spasm and ache for something on which to wring out the tension. The tension those drugs impose never really leaves you, after a while it becomes like cradling knives by the tip.

Truth be told that's why I started drinking. It seemed, if not harmless, at least pragmatic after a run. Drugs stop me sleeping, drink helps me sleep. And if it meant I got to forget about things for a bit then so much the better. The more time passed, the more I found I wanted to forget.

It would be easy to fix if I could grab the steering wheel. Even just for a moment to wrap my fingers around and squeeze the tension of waiting into the unforgiving plastic. Grabbing a jackhammer, watching hawk like for tremors, these have kept the tension at bay but my hands miss the touch of a wheel. My body misses the shifts of a vehicle beneath it in time with the action of my hands. My head misses the rush and surge of speed.

Ricky's head starts lolling forward. Out snaps my left hand to rap gently on his visor, or at least gentle was what I thought. Ricky jolts however, and the truck swerves in his blind panic. Up slides his visor, he's breaking out with sweat. Though a dozen curses probably sit on his lips already, he forebears.

“Thank you, Alan.” He says, scowling at himself. “Clearly not enough sugar today.”

He shakes his head, and the sound that escapes his lips is like he's gargling salt. On facing forward again his tongue lolls out a little.

“You should sleep.” I say.

“We're on a hard deadline.”

“I can drive for a while. We both know licenses only matter past the checkpoints at the cities.”

“If all goes my way we won't be passing any checkpoints mate. Off the beaten track a little further down the road. Down an old firetrail into the gullies that form around the marshes. There's a ferry crossing that operates off book down there. Runs far enough that it'll put us alongside the coast road, free and clear.”

That started me a little. Between us and the coastal spit, that Melbourne had become as seas kept rising, was where marsh land lay thickest. Toxic and brackish water swirling red with tonnes of sandstone that had been eroded and washed inland. I'd seen on the news a graphic showing marshland surrounding the city in a loose red semi-circle. And that semi-circle was thickest near the coasts. I said as much to Ricky and for a moment he looked properly awake.

“You don't get out much do you Alan? That line was drawn to mark where the marshland started, years ago. It's moved almost up to the city since then. Maybe twenty kilometres of firm ground between the edge of the marsh and the city limits, and some of that's turning foul and boggy now too. There's talk of a second sea wall to be built when the time comes. But I don't know. It might be easier for them just to pack up and leave. Near the coast the marsh comes almost up to the seawall. Just the dunes in between. The most heavily guarded piles of sand in all creation. Must be a private cop for every dozen square metres of the place.”

“Why's that?”

“Well for starters because if the dunes fall away then the sea wall gets undermined. But I hear of experiments being done. Some links has been found between a suppressant for almost all the toxins in the water and some lizard that lives in the dunes. I don't know the details, but those little lizards are getting all the scientific attention they can handle.”

“They've had treatment for the water toxins for a while haven't they?”

“Stupid, clumsy, expensive treatments that take the rest of your life.” Says Ricky dismissively.

“I'm talking about some smart guys in lab coats talking up the chance of a boost you can stick in your arm that sends your immune system into overdrive. And all the bad things just get flushed away. Anyway, the treatment they've got right now does some funny things to your insides too. I've heard it washes out all your melanin while it's flushing you for toxins. So, they're testing it on cold blooded creatures to see if there's a fix for sun sensitivity.”

He shrugs.

“Or something like that anyway. Saw it on the news.”

“And we have to make the deal in the middle of that. Maybe I don't get out much these days but can't you smell a set up?”

“I did the first time I drove in here.” Ricky says, giving me an impressed smile. In his eyes perhaps I am becoming quite the little amateur smuggler.

“But” he continues “Private security don't appear to bother these psychos much. Which makes me think that they're the ones privately paying them if you get my meaning.”

That did not surprise me. Ricky's talk turned to the road immediately in front of us as he mounted a dirt ramp off the road.

“Twenty Ks that up the highway the checkpoints start. And I wouldn't take that way even if we didn't have contraband. My gut has always said that least half the 'tolls' they collect are unofficial. This track runs down through a string of gullies and a little creek. All the ground towards the marshes starts falling away, cops don't often go down there. They have to pay for their own dry cleaning.”

He grins and I take in for a moment the wealth of faded stains adorning his sun suit.

“Sun down or just after is the best time to cross down here. They row you across on big rafts, engines off, quiet as a mouse. Then they have pullies on the other side to pull you up to the coast road. And I always stay ahead on my payments to these guys. Even if I'm behind on everything else. Way I see it it's the only real way into Melbourne.”

That is good news, I say as much. It's weird to feel a sudden swell of pride. My every impression of Ricky has been tinged with a constant wariness for what he might blunder into next. A little show of thoughtfulness can reveal a lot. And it means he still has some control over his life. And that means a lot to me right now if it means an easy way into Melbourne unseen. Ricky's face falls a little when I observe the good news, and the next words out of his mouth are;

“Bad news however. Taking the back roads means nobody who's likely to sell us diesel until we're on the other side. I'll find us a place there that takes my company's credit. But before that I'd like to top up. This fuel gauge can be a little overly optimistic sometimes.”

“And exactly where do we 'top up' if there are no diesel stations this way?”

“See that's the thing. There's nobody who'll sell us diesel but that doesn't mean nowhere to get diesel. Well, this place we're going. It's like a diesel station anyway. Have you ever siphoned a tank before?”

I have once, hose to mouth for a full night. Desperately scrambling to get moving again before the sun rose. That summer had been very hot, I had never craved the taste of beer like I did after flushing my mouth with gasoline. All Ricky needs to know this information is to see the involuntary retch happening in my throat at the thought of it.

“This will be a bit easier than that, I hope anyway. The pump isn't what it used to be but it'll draw a bit more from the well.” Ricky's smile is placating but his tired eyes still look worried. He leans forward, squinting at the horizon. The haze of sunset to the west, and the rising sides of the gully, make it impossible to see the marshes, or Melbourne. But through the gaps even I can make out wisps of stringy red cloud. He doesn't need to tell me what those mean.

“We have to hurry.” I say

Sleep keeps waving to me. I don't like it. Time spent with sleep leaves a man easier prey, while you're in bed with sleep the things in your mind's corners come out. You need to take something with you when you go to bed with sleep. Or you'll both be disappointed.

Sleep, keep on waving. Just a little further, I'll be with you soon. When there is nothing else there is work, exhaustion pays for all. Just a little longer. The pump is coiled on my shoulder. Did I put it there? My mouth is moving, explaining how these fuel dumps date back over a century. I speak automatically, like it's the only thing to say. I wonder if I also talk in my sleep. Reflex, my hand is stretching out. It jumped without prompting, did it? There's a foggy shape in front of me. I've almost walked into my side mirror.

“Hey, don't pass out on me yet!” I cry to Ricky, trying to match his grim smile. It's bent my arms and shoulders in places I didn't know they could be bent, but the lid is off Ricky's old fuel dump. Apparently this one dates back to when Japan had an empire and planned on making this country part of it. Must have been an interesting time. Now the coastline they dug this fuel dump to help protect is falling away. But the coil of wire Ricky drops in ahead of the pump hose comes back glistening from half way down.

The pump is driven into the ground next to the open lid. In goes the hose and Ricky hooks a second handle to the pump. This will definitely go faster with the two of us.

The pump itself is a little odd. The handle cranks all the way up to draw liquid into a ten-litre drum beneath it. Then the pump on the way up begins squirting it through a second hose into the fuel tank. An ingenious way to farm fuel out from so far beneath the earth. The surface must have been at least twenty feet down when I looked in. Though I didn't look too long, the fumes overwhelmed me. I felt sick.

Neither Ricky nor I need to say anything as minutes start passing in time with the pump. The sun sinks a few degrees further. We parked the truck to hide in its shadow and now that shadow extends far past us. I lean on the crank a little harder, we're cutting it close.

The pump breaks. It's so thoroughly non-dramatic that it catches neither mine nor Ricky's attention straight away. There is just a tiny cracking sound that we both ignore, it could easily be the other guy's back. But several cranks later it is impossible to ignore that no more fuel is going into the truck.

“You can swear if you like.” I say, pressing my forehead to the handle. Had I been pulling it too hard?

Ricky does start swearing, I think he's been waiting for the chance. I don't even understand half of it. There's nothing to do but hold on tight to the useless crank. Maybe if I squeeze out enough nervous energy into it we will have more fuel from it. A useless idea, if we want more fuel to ensure we make it through the marsh it is obvious what needs to be done.

“I'll do it.” I say, bending over the half full drum before Ricky has a chance to argue. It feels enough like this is my fault that I'll take it one more time. I remember how it worked before, I remember the taste best of all. But I got through that, I'll get through this. Then onwards.

“I can handle it.” I say with a smile and suck the first glob of fuel into my mouth.

Diesel tastes like highly concentrated alcohol, and the last time I'd siphoned fuel pump to mouth I'd been a man who could handle my liquor. I can't any more, that much should have been obvious. But it only becomes so in the second when fuel spatters the back of my throat. It's too strong for me. I gag and wretch. So eager is my body to halt the passage of this toxin into my body that my throat seems to wrap around the liquid. Strangling me in the name of bodily purity. A giant cough is building strength behind my clenching throat but I am fighting myself. In or out, I don't want this stuff anywhere near me.

Pitching myself forward, my whole body rejecting the utterly bitter bile, worse than rotten fruit, worse than a cheap bottle of tequila I spent a day drinking in Sydney one weekend. But it had about the same effect. Out sprayed the liquid and everything else inside me followed after.

In a blink an old man has become a skeletal form on the ground. Like a puppet with its strings cut. His frame heaves, the last bits of the willpower that had held him up. The frail body squeezes itself tight, throws everything that tastes bad onwards and out into the night.

More is being purged than a mouthful of diesel. He's not fighting it.

There are a lot of things poisoned in this bent and gnarled body. He wants them all gone.

I can see myself there. Indeed, I have seen myself in this pose not too far from this spot. The ground was black in shadow but the sun was still blazing.

Back then the chrome was shinier. I could see my reflection clearly in it. Once I looked up from that exact pose the man is forming on the ground.

There's a sound escaping my mouth.

“Alan!”

Concern is pulling towards him. But my feet won't move. I'm sorry Alan. We're so close to the place where the same thing happened to me. I know full well that you don't want it to stop. I didn't either. I just had to look at myself on elbows and knees before my truck. Feeling like I'd spew out my stomach lining if I vomited any more. And wondering if that would be such a bad thing. Die there in my own filth. Die as I lived.

I looked myself in the eye, sick smearing my cheeks, sunlight scorching my face even as it faded. My head was inches from the ground, ass in the air. Presenting to the world.

'Anyone else want to f**k me' I had screamed, or tried to scream. It came out a hoarse whisper.

That was for the best. I didn't deserve to scream in anger that it had happened to me. Only in sorrow.

“Alan” concern has pulled me to his side, his withered shoulder is in my hand.

“Sit down mate. I can handle this.”

By the time I'm finished I'll be so very tired. Sleep will welcome me with more love than I have felt in years. It's true, exhaustion pays for all.

My eyes stay open long enough to turn the truck on once I'm finished. Precious water still drooling from my liberally rinsed mouth.

“Drive Alan. Straight ahead to the ferries.”

Nobody should drive my truck with me. But I have to be away with sweet lady sleep.